


Lies

by Dominatrix



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little hurt and a little comfort, Gen, OTP forever, Sherlock x Irene implied, Spoiler for "The Reichenbach Fall"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:33:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dominatrix/pseuds/Dominatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene Adler gets to know about Sherlock's suicide. But she can't really believe it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lies

Irene looked at her newspaper while she raised her teacup to her lips. It was a boring day. She skimmed the headline of the newspaper, applied herself to the smaller articles that were squeezed to the outer sides and sighed; it was all so obvious and uninteresting. She ignored the big, cantilevered catch-line, which almost spread across the whole cover. She wasn’t interested in catch-lines. Mostly they were not mare than lies. But the picture on the bottom of the corner made her stop.

It was Sherlock, undoubtedly, who wore an atrocious deerstalker. Obviously this hat didn’t make him feel comfortable, either; his facial expression and the fierce line around his mouth told her enough. His view was uninterested as well as arrogant which brought Irene to a little twitch in the corners of her mouth and almost to a little smile. Yes, this was the Sherlock she thought was fascinating. Perfectly sure that it would be another ebullient praise of his job, as it had been the case in the last weeks – she had followed this with huge interest – she let her view rest on the writing.

She read it once.

She read it twice.

Even at the third time she wasn’t sure whether she really understood the sense of the words.

When she read the words the fourth time she understood. The creme-coloured teacup slipped through her fingers and emptied it boiling hot liquid on Irene’s bare legs before it hit the ground with a dull noise. Irene didn’t notice, she didn’t even bat an eye. Her whole attention was still on the words that seemed to jump in her face. _Suicide of fake genius._

Every letter was a lie. It couldn’t be different. She had experienced Sherlock herself, had appreciated his genius and admired his person. And suicide? Nothing would oppose him so such as sealing his fate in such an ordinary way.

But it all matched so well.

She felt how she grew cold, how something splintered in her and how the tiny, sharp pieces that remained pierced painfully in her body. It wasn’t possible, she thought while she doubled over with her face distorted in pain and took a deep breath. It sounded like a desperate sob, and when the hot tears streamed down her cheeks she reached for her smart phone, her fingers shaking.

It needed several tries until she was able to enter her password. Just when she had calmed down a bit and the newspaper lay on the other side of the room – because she didn’t even want to look at these words one more time – she started to type a message.

 

_Sherlock._

She waited.

_Sherlock. I know you’re alive. IA_

No answer. He never simply didn’t answer. She had to bite her lower lip so no painful sob could flee her throat, and tasted blood.

_Sherlock, PLEASE. IA_

Nothing. Just nothing. It wasn‘t like she was devastated – yet, actually she was – or particularly sad – although she was it, too when she allowed herself to be honest. She was especially disappointed. Disappointed by _him_ , because it was such an ordinary way to die. It wasn’t Sherlock-like at all. Maybe the newspapers das been right after all, maybe he was just an ordinary human being as everybody else. The thought repelled her.

She rose and wiped the tears from her cheeks. With still shaking knees she paced in her bedroom and dressed. She had not returned into her old house after her “death”, it would have been far too dangerous, but she had moved in a beautiful, new home, only an hour distance to the centre of London. The phone in her dressing gown vibrated. Without too great hopes she looked at the display.

 

_Dinner at eight? SH_

She smiled.


End file.
